


Shodai

by itachiscatears



Series: Tumblr Prompts [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Time, Grinding, M/M, Madara's kind of a prude whoops, Minor cameo by Madara's chakra kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29025582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itachiscatears/pseuds/itachiscatears
Summary: The walk to his house is silent save the greetings of his bewildered clansmen. Their curiosity is palpable:Why is the Hokage strolling through the Uchiha district in only training clothing? Why is Madara-sama making such a scary face? Why do they both look as if they had been dragged through several bushes?(AKA: Horny sparring turns into horny not-sparring.)
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Series: Tumblr Prompts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2166189
Comments: 4
Kudos: 91





	Shodai

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: “Hashirama/Madara are about to have sex when one of them finishes early” for @al-stuffy on Tumblr. 
> 
> Some boring background stuff: Set after the village is founded. Hashirama is married but Mito believes in polyam rights. (The poly aspect isn’t featured here, though – this is basically just long-overdue hashimada smut.) 
> 
> ~~is madara a virgin? no he isn’t yes he is no he isn’t yes he is~~
> 
> Content warning: While everything is consensual, there is an element of sexual anxiety that is not communicated between the characters when it should be.

The walk to his house is silent save the greetings of his bewildered clansmen. Their curiosity is palpable: _Why is the Hokage strolling through the Uchiha district in only training clothing? Why is Madara-sama making such a scary face? Why do they both look as if they had been dragged through several bushes?_

Hashirama endures their curiosity with a warm smile and polite greetings; Madara acknowledges them with curt nods and does not linger to chat, walking with a clear purpose that no-one dares to question.

Madara enters the house first, giving it a cursory once-over for any signs of interference. Hashirama steps out of his sandals behind him and shuts the front door, greeting the small potted tree in the entrance. 

“Clear,” Madara says tersely, leaning his gunbai against the nearest wall and dragging his sweat-soaked mantle over his head. He is barely free of the soggy material when large hands clamp down on his shoulders and wrench him around.

He sweeps out a leg instinctively and they plummet gracelessly to the floor, tired and sore from their lengthy spar. Hashirama’s not insubstantial weight winds him; for a moment all he can see are black dots swimming in and out of view. Then he is being yanked to his feet, Hashirama’s arms coiled tightly around him and his mouth moving insistently against his.

It’s so _clumsy_. He nearly breaks away in offense but Hashirama’s momentum sends him stumbling backwards, constantly on the edge of falling. His hip slams into the wall outside of his personal room and the entire frame shakes with their combined weight. Something cracks.

“Whoops,” Hashirama pants, bright eyes tracing something above them. He unclenches his hands from Madara’s waist and presses his palms flat to the wall, siphoning chakra into the normally dormant wood.

Madara can feel it thrum against his back. His eyes fall shut, a heated shudder working its way up from his toes. He had cooled off significantly on the journey over from the training grounds but arousal burns anew beneath clammy skin.

Hashirama drags the door open and manhandles him inside. Madara snaps his head to the side before he can kiss him again. Trepidation spreads like heat through his body.

“We should bath,” he says roughly. It is a poor excuse, but they _are_ filthy from throwing each other around all afternoon and he _had_ just replaced his futon.

“Can’t wait that long,” Hashirama breathes and promptly wrestles him to the ground. Madara forces his body to relax in anticipation of the hard floor, but their fall is broken by Hashirama’s hands and the thin mattress of the futon he had apparently forgotten to roll up that morning.

Limbs tangle and fight for purchase. Broad hands circle his forearms and still them as they kiss. The smell of the sun is still clinging to Hashirama’s skin; eyes shut, it is easy to imagine they are still grappling and rutting on the destroyed field of the training grounds.

But the room is dim beyond his shuttered eyes, ruining the fantasy. His heart is quick but heavy, the lack of true exertion confusing his war-ready body. He feels more exposed here than he had kissing Hashirama in broad daylight.

Hashirama pauses and leans up on his forearms to squint at him. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he hisses. He hates being questioned. “Get on with it.”

The naked concern on Hashirama’s face rankles something deep inside him. Hashirama certainly had not been _concerned_ when he was choking Madara out with his thighs only an hour before, nor when he slammed him repeatedly into the ground with a wood clone combo that blatantly ignored their agreement not to use ninjutsu. _(“You didn’t say I couldn’t use clones I already had.”)_

Madara would not have appreciated any concern then, of course, and he does not appreciate it _now_. But he does not get a chance to voice this displeasure as Hashirama resumes his latest attack, mouth bruising his. Straight dark hair frames Madara’s face in sweat-damp ribbons. _This_ —even without the sun beating down on them from behind disdainful clouds, _this_ —

His heartrate picks up as Hashirama shifts from straddling his thighs to laying over him, blood thinning as it races from limb to limb. Usually a welcome feeling in the midst of battle, it leaves his stomach a little sick now. He can almost ignore it in favour of dizzying heat: his mouth, his skin where Hashirama’s hands paw and hold, desperate pulses of roiling heat low in his stomach.

A hand fists his hair away from his face, kisses increasingly sloppy. Hashirama arches eagerly against him and makes a small, breathy noise into his mouth.

Madara’s lungs are heaving for air, every breath stretching tight skin. It should be shameful; war had rarely winded him, but some sloppy kissing and groping has left his lungs parched. Even the excuse of their brutal spar sounds weak to his own mind. He peels his hands from Hashirama’s forearms, intentions unknown even to himself, and hisses in shock as a hand works between their bodies and squeezes his cock.

Hashirama pauses, breathing laboured. “No?”

He will only realise later that he never responds, distracted by the body against his and his revived erection. The deliberate shape of Hashirama’s hand grasping him is alarmingly intimate.

“Madara?”

He grunts and Hashirama finally resumes, hand kneading him over his sweat-damp clothes. He clenches his eyes shut, constricting his throat so as not to make a sound. Blood-hot lips leave his mouth, sliding across his neck and over his jaw—sucking the thin skin over his throat. Madara’s hands clamp down on his upper arms, fingertips clawing into his shirt.

“Are you ticklish?”

Hashirama’s voice is too rough to carry the childish teasing; it sounds almost like a _threat_ , bizarre as it is, and Madara’s fingers creak from the pressure of holding him in place. Hashirama strains down to kiss his neck anyway, mouth oddly stiff. It takes Madara a moment too long to realise that he is grinning.

The world shifts: Hashirama yelps as he is grappled onto his back, hands going instinctively to Madara’s throat. They both freeze, Madara’s hair hanging between them and hiding his face. His chest is still aching for air. Hashirama’s hands slide from his shoulders to his waist and squeezes. He makes no attempt to regain stature.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers, excited.

Madara, quickly and devastatingly, comes to the conclusion that being above Hashirama does not feel as powerful as he had imagined. He ducks his head, furious at himself and furious at Hashirama, and kisses him viciously to hide his ignorance. 

Eager hands guide his hips flat until they are flush, both inescapably hard. Madara copies his small thrusts, biting back a gasp when Hashirama moans openly.

Hashirama breaks the kiss first, fingers curling in the hem of his shirt. Madara removes it impatiently and nearly regrets it when warm hands slide up his stomach and frame his ribs. He pins Hashirama’s wrists to the futon and widens his legs for leverage, grinding their cocks together.

He does not mean to let go, but sex is more distracting than he could have predicted: the sensations, Hashirama’s expressions, the way blood pools beneath his skin. His fingers loosen of their own accord and Hashirama wastes no time whipping his clinging top off and dragging Madara’s hands up his torso, planting them right over his pectorals.

Madara pries open heat-heavy eyes to stare down at his scarred hands on Hashirama’s chest. He has a very even tan, is Madara’s first idiotic thought. The second, though he has seen Hashirama shirtless more times than he can count, is: _Hashirama’s tits are bigger than his wife’s._

Sly hands sweep up his sides and settle on his hips before Madara can think about caging him more effectively, guiding increasingly desperate thrusts. The pleasure is almost dull, layers of humid material between them, but it mounts quickly following an afternoon on edge. It feels _dangerous_. The contact is suddenly too much: he rears his head up, throwing heavy hair back—hisses between his teeth and jerks back a centimetre, thighs trembling with the effort to hold himself up.

Hashirama arches against him to close the miniscule distance, a choked sound leaving his throat. His fingers flex and dig into Madara’s hips, nails biting heat-numb skin. It is only when he sinks to the floor, breath coming quick, that Madara fully grasps what has occurred.

 _“You—”_ he begins, appalled, but he does not even know what to say. For a moment he is simply relieved that it was not _him._

Hashirama slumps below him, throwing an arm over his burning face. Misery rolls off him in waves.

Madara sits atop him, speechless. For a long moment neither of them speak, Hashirama pathetically hiding his face. Their breaths slowly even. Madara’s chest feels increasingly loose. 

And his head increasingly irate.

“Is that _it?”_ he snaps at last. “You’re through?”

Hashirama perks up immediately, despair forgotten. “No, no! I’m sorry—I got ahead of myself—you looked so—”

Madara crushes their mouths together before he can say something particularly reprehensible. Hashirama responds without hesitation, eager to prove his virility—but it lacks the edge of need from before, his body shying away from too much stimulation.

Madara draws back with a lethal glare. “Now what?” he hisses, too irritated to be embarrassed.

“I just need a few minutes,” Hashirama says with a weak grin. “Maybe a bath would be a good idea after all.”

“What about _me?”_ he nearly snaps, and promptly swallows back the words. He would have to kill them both – and for nought as Hashirama will surely pester him about it in the afterlife.

“Do you want to take a bath together?” Hashirama continues boldly, eyes lingering somewhere embarrassing. “I’ll use my mouth if you do.”

The words are nothing short of appalling. How Madara’s body responds – the tiny involuntary jerk of his hips still flush to Hashirama’s – is even more so. Hashirama’s stupid smile fades as the heat returns to his eyes.

“Yes?”

“…yes.”


End file.
